Nightingale's Last Flight
by Arthur88
Summary: Leliana's point of view of the last stand at Redcliffe Castle during the "In Hushed Whispers" quest. Set in the same universe as From the Ashes. Some minor spoilers for future works in the same...


_Sorry, been away for a while and been dealing with other things, both personal and professional. This is just a drabble that's been rattling around in my head for a while: Dragon Age Inquisition reignited my enthusiasm for the world of Thedas and I've slowly been working on a set of short stories set in the storylines I've already created (both in the same timelines as_ **_From the Ashes_** and _**Joined Together**_ ) _that I intend to finish and then upload in the next couple of weeks, as well as a few short stories in the same timeline as_ **_Joined Together_** _set during the events of Origins and DA:II). The continuation of **From the Ashes** is still on hiatus for the time being (when I get around to it, I'm probably going to go back to scratch as I cannot continue with the current beginning I had and I need to retcon a lot of what I had written to match it up with the canon now), but I will get around to it at some point._

 _As always, not writing for reviews (though they're always welcome), just for amusement and to get this one-shot out of my head. Not sure how it stands up to some of my other stuff, but I don't think I can add any more to it and hopefully you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. All the best!_

* * *

Pain. My constant companion, both physical and spiritual, ever since the Inquisitor went to confront the magister at Redcliffe and never returned, since Orlais and Ferelden were trampled beneath the iron heel of Tevinter. Since the Breach was rent open anew and madness and death came spilling through. Since everyone I knew, everyone I loved and whoever loved me dead or gone to fates worse than death.

My waking hours are nothing but suffering and pain in this place that once held such wonderful memories for me; the place where I and my Warden first admitted the fact we loved each other, the place where our daughter was conceived, where our little band of heroes planned how to bring about the end of the Fifth Blight. But now, the memories that come to my mind as I dangle from the ceiling naked and in chains are always the same thing- snippets of the horrors I have seen since the opening of the Breach; Arthur, his left arm torn off at the shoulder, struggling to charge the Elder One, ignoring the pain of his missing limb and the screaming in his head from the false Calling, coming within an inch of bringing his sword down on the creature's head before the jaws of that mutated dragon clamp shut around his chest and finish the job. Alistair butchered by a mob of Venatori thugs, still fighting tooth and nail even as the circle of bodies around him closes, blades rising and falling into his chest and back all the time. Blackwall, Iron Bull, Cullen cut down like dogs, dragged under and torn apart beneath a tide of demonic claws. Josephine, Flissa, Minaeve and other women of the Inquisition being dragged away naked and in chains, bound for the auction block in Minrathous and a life of slavery as some magister's concubine, prizes of war for the Elder One's cronies. Myself holding Cecily in my arms in the chapel of Castle Cousland, stroking my daughter's hair and whispering "I'm sorry" again and again as the Adder's Kiss I used to spike the wine she just drank begins to take effect, committing the minor evil for the greater good of sparing her the tender mercies of the Venatori…

The door to my cell swings open and the two figures that I have come to familiarise with over the last year, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky, their faces hidden behind the horned helms they wear denoting their membership in the nationalist cult, but when they start speaking, I know it's the same pair whose attentions I've had to endure over the course of the last year.

"Going to save us all a lot of bother and start talking?" the taller of the pair asks as his fellow lays out their tools for the day's work. I spit at his feet in answer. My torturers shake their heads in mocking regret.

"It's been a year, and still you insist on dragging this out. _It's over._ Your little Inquisition breathes no more, and no help will come. Be a good girl and tell us what we want to know, or I'll carve another scar in that pretty little face of yours."

Another voice chimed in, reedy and mocking. "Pretty? Huh, you mean she was pretty. Her good looks were soiled when the Inquisition went tits up. At least her body is still good for something though. I heard the boys got in a few good runs with her. Might give her a go myself, sometime, before she gets any uglier."

"Why waste your time with spoiled meat?" the first man sneers. "She was spreading her legs for the Warden long before this. There's plenty of better choices in the village! Plus" the second man adds ruefully, pointing at my groin "given what Alexius has had done to her over the last year, who knows what's festering away down there?!"

"Good point. I suppose there's better ways to get what we want to know" the other agrees, then slams a mailed fist into my gut. I double over as much as my chains will allow, desperately struggling to suck in breath as today's interrogation gets underway.

I drift in and out over what seems like minutes, but is in truth hours. I know this because every time the pain spits me out, the body language of my torturers becomes angrier and angrier. It is the only thing that gives me some consolation throughout my suffering, knowing how much my reticence to speak is pissing off the two tasked with prying information out of me.

" _One last time_ " the taller of the pair all but spits the words "H _ow_ did that knife-eared little wretch survive the explosion at the Temple?!"

My response is to spit in his face and give him a sarcastic smile. "A wizard did it"

His answer is a mailed fist into my jawbone; I feel more teeth part company with my jaw and spit out a fair number as the wretch seizes my chin and forces me to look up.

"Talk, damn you! The Elder One demands answers!"

I spit a bloody wad in his face again and laugh, a cold, bitter sound. "Then he'd best get used to disappointment!"

Fuming, the torturer ponders the items laid out on the table and seizes a short knife with a serrated blade, holding it an inch from my eye. The smell of alcohol and tooth decay assail my senses as the torturer's face, mercifully hidden by his helm, presses in, halting barely an inch from mine, the tip of the blade barely kept from piercing flesh. I wonder if the wretch actually intends to cut my eye out or merely thinks this latest boorish attempt to scare me will bear fruit.

"You _will_ break!" the wretch assures me.

"I will _die_ first!"

The dungeon door slams open as a boot all but kicks it off its hinges. The cultist's head whips round at the disturbance, looking for its source, and that is all the distraction I need.

"Or you will" I whisper, a second before I keep my promise and wrap my legs around his throat. Before his companion can react either to me or the intrusion, a crossbow bolt pitches him backwards off his stool, clawing weakly at the shaft protruding from his chest; before he can recover, a slender elven girl in a pale armoured coat fashioned of nugskin storms over and drives the blade at the end of her staff through his throat. My captive thrashes frantically in the grip of my thighs, desperately trying to get free, his struggles growing steadily weaker as I choke the life from him, until I get one foot under his chin and twist it violently to the right. The audible crack as his neck snaps is deeply satisfying.

"You're alive" I whisper, half astonished, half enraged as Cyrene Lavellan pulls a ring of keys from the belt of the man I just killed and unlocks the manacles suspending me from the rafters. I gracefully slip from my chains and land barefooted on the floor; as I stretch myself to my full height for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, working the kinks out of my limbs, wincing as the motions cause old wounds to split open and bones to crack after so long barely moving.

Judging by the elf's expression, I must look like something that crawled out of the grave, which is how I feel. I feel the trickle of tainted blood and pus leaking from the multitude of scars left across my flesh by the whip, the burning brand and the blade, worse than anything I suffered all those years ago thanks to Marjolaine's treachery. Weeping sores and cuts from the tainted blood they infected me with on Alexius's orders to try and save his son weep corrupt trickles down my cheeks and jaw, my hair hangs about my face in lank red ropes and every movement tears open the masses of scar tissues and scabbed, barely healing wounds. The elf's hand-the marked one- darts out hesitantly as if about to put a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but seems to think better of it at the look in my eyes and merely contends herself with the sort of platitude people always favour in this sort of situation.

"You're safe now"

"Forget safe. If you've come back from the dead, you need to do better than safe. You _need_ to end this"

I turn away, hearing the elf wince as she sees the state of my naked back- the already significant lattice of scar tissue torn across my spine by Marjolaine's earlier betrayal made even worse by the tender mercies of the Tevinter lash, to say nothing of the surgical incisions and excisions of flesh from my body to investigate what effect the Blight is having upon me and my ability to resist it- stripping the body of one of my torturers of armour in a bid to cover myself, before rooting around in a nearby chest and finding a welcome sight; my old cloak, frayed, torn, the purple colouration all but faded away, but I don it regardless, drawing strength from what it represents, feeling the old sense of purpose that I was doing the Maker's work in my actions for the Inquisition. I feel as if I needed the reminder for what I know is to come.

"Enough" I curtly cut across the Tevinter's babbling that this is all illusory, that they can go back and prevent all the horror, all the hurt that I have been forced to witness for the last twelve month. "This is all pretend to you, some future you hope will not exist. I suffered. The whole world suffered. It _was_ real".

Behind them, I see Cassandra and Varric; both are clad in loose-fitting armour that look to have been pulled from the corpses of Venatori, Cassandra clutching an Imperial falcata and a rectangular shield with the cult's dragon insignia emblazoned on it, while Varric uncertainly handles a crossbow. Like me, both show the signs of severe torture and the red hue their irises have acquired suggests lengthy exposure to red lyrium. Like me, they seem resigned to whatever comes next, uncaring of what becomes of them so long as they can find some way to strike back at the Elder One and his lackeys for all that they have done, both to us personally and to all of Thedas.

I angrily motion for Dorian and Cyrene to follow, but for all my anger, something has managed to permeate it. I don't know if what they say is true, that this can be undone, but if even a chance exists, I _will_ take it. I don't know if this version of me will die and another Leliana will take my place, or if the skeins of time regarding my life will rewind to the point when this madness all began, but all that matters to me is one point.

 _They will live again_.

Arthur and Cecily Cousland. My husband and my daughter, whole and hale, spared from the painful ends this new future inflicted upon them, and myself granted a second chance to deny their killers the chance to break this world and fight amongst themselves over the ruined pieces for the amusement of their master. If I can in any way alter that fact, then I will not hesitate, not shy away from it.

I pull a bow and quiver from the body of a dead archer in Venatori colours in the corridor, slain earlier by my rescuers and notch an arrow to the string as I motion for the party to follow, whispering to myself, as I have always done in darker moments, portions from the Chant of Light, drawing strength from the Maker's word in the knoqledge that I am on the apth that His will directs my feet upon.

 _"Let the blade pass through the flesh, let my blood touch the ground, let my cries touch their hearts. Let mine be the last sacrifice"._

One last sacrifice. One life for the chance of a better world.

Maker please let it be enough.

* * *

Our journey through the ruins of Redcliffe Castle is swift; the castle is all but deserted, most of its garrison having been called away to Rivain in preparation for the Elder One's final assault to retake Seheron. The forces that remain are more jailors than guards, keeping watch on Alexius to ensure he cannot escape before the Elder One has time to exact retribution for Alexius's failure to deliver on his promise to use the magic of time to undo what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, to remove the interference of Cyrene Lavellan from the magister's plans. The greater threat is posed by the beasts that come slithering out of the Fade from the rifts that spawn into existence thanks to the malevolent influence of the Breach, swollen to gargantuan proportions in the sky above us.

I lead the way, having been dragged through the halls of the castle to Alexius's inner sanctum from my cell for the magister to observe what, if any, effect his experiments are having in the hopes of saving his son, as well as arresting further progression of the Blight in my blood before it completes my degeneration into a broodmother. We hunt down those Tevinter lackeys holding the pieces of the key necessary to open the enchanted door that Alexius cowers behind for fear of his master's retribution; I all but slam the pieces of the key into the magical lock and storm into the chamber to confront the most obvious source of my suffering, leaving the others trailing behind me.

The magister stands with his back to us, facing the fire, head bowed and shoulders slumped as he slowly turns to face us with the weary expression of a man who knows he is merely delaying the inevitable. The magister sighes bitterly, the sound of a man resigned to his fate.

"And so it ends. I knew I would see you again…not when, but I knew I hadn't killed you"

Dorian's expression contorts into a mask of disgust, his every word dripping venom as he berates his old mentor for damning the world, with Cyrene adding her own biting taunts to Dorian's vitriol, asking if whatever reward he's gotten from the Elder One is worth all the ruin and destruction his selfish actions have caused the world.

"It doesn't matter. The end comes…for you, for me, for us all. All I have done, all I betrayed and what have I wrought? Ruin and death, nothing else"

I leave the three mages to their wordplay, stalking through the shadows cast by the pillars that line the hall. Cassandra and Varric wait tense as stalking wolves behind the Herald and the Tevinter, hands resting on their weapons and their bloody-hued eyes fixed on Alexius, waiting for the tension between the three mages to boil over and the inevitable confrontation that will follow. I, however, have my eyes on better prey as I spy the wretched thing that was hiding behind the throne in the shadows, rocking itself dully and making weak gagging noises of pain and desperation. Though its hair has fallen out in great clumps, its skin has taken the waxy, pallid pallor of a corpse and its once brown eyes have gone milky white, the cloth-of-gold robes it wears are immediately recognisable. The ghoul squawks in terror as I seize and haul it to its feet, weakly trying to throw off my grip, but even debilitated by long months of starvation and torture, I am still stronger than the weak, sickly thing as I stifle its cries with a knife's blade pressed hard against its throat.

"Felix!" Alexius yelps, his expression flooding with something I've wanted to see on it for so long.

Terror.

"That's _Felix_?!" Dorian chokes, his tone and expression both a mixture of horror and revulsion at the sight of the sickly, gagging creature that had been his friend in my grasp. "Maker's balls, Gerreon, **_what have you done to him_**?!"

"He would have died, Dorian, but I saved him!" the magister protests to the disgust in his old apprentice's voice before turning his attention to me. "Please, do not hurt my son! Whatever you want is yours!"

My lip curls into a sneer at his pleading. Does he think the fact I was once a mother, that we both had children we fought so desperately to save as the world fell apart around us, will make me soften to him, make me forget the year of torture and misery I suffered, saw my friends and loved ones suffer?

"I want my life restored. I want my friends returned. I want my husband and my daughter alive and by my side. _I want the world back_ " I snarl, all but spitting the words. Alexius's face falls into an open-mouthed gawp of dismay as he realises he has nothing he can use to bargain with me. I reply with a reptilian smile worthy of the last one Marjolaine gave me all those years ago…before I open his precious whelp's throat from ear to ear.

A little part of me thinks I'm being merciful; Felix is little better than a ghoul by this stage, all his father's efforts having done nothing but merely halt the inevitable, and this death is a far quicker, cleaner end than the lingering misery of dying from the Blight. But that is subsumed by another, darker part that takes joy in the almost bestial shriek of grief that spills from Alexius as his son pitches face-first to the floor with blood pouring down his front, satisfied that now the magister knows the same pain I have suffered ever since Cyrene Lavellan vanished, since Arthur, Cecily, Alistair, Josephine, Justinia and all the others I knew and loved died, since the Inquisition was defeated and the Venatori and their hell-spawned master triumphed.

The pain of seeing everything you've fought for, everything you've done be for nothing.

* * *

The fight-if it can be called such- is a short affair. Alexius offers little more than token resistance, the beasts spilling from the rifts he conjures more of a threat than him, but Cyrene's magic and Cassandra's sword takes them apart and the mark upon the Dalish girl's hand seals the rifts quicker than the magister can turn them to his advantage. Orbs of flame and darts of ice whir through the air as the Dalish First and the magister duel with spells across the length of the hall, until Dorian, taking advantage of his old mentor's obsession to destroy the Herald, sends a fireball of his own slamming into Alexius's chest. The old man screams and claws at himself as his robes ignite, flailing wildly until Cassandra, having circled around behind, splits his skull open with her stolen blade. Alexius, blood spilling down his back from the gaping crevasse in his head, topples down the stairs of the dais and lies in a sprawled heap at their base. The last thing he manages before life leaves him is to grip his son's wrist, a weary smile crossing his lips before the end.

 _'Pitiful_ ' I think to myself. _'A magister should die harder'_. Maybe he just wants to be reunited with the son he failed. Or maybe he felt dying by our hands was better than facing the wrath of his master for failing to accomplish his set task.

"He wanted to die, didn't he?" Dorian vocalises what I, and likely the rest of us are all thinking. "All the lies he told himself, the justifications…he lost Felix long ago and didn't even notice…"

Dorian gently closes Alexius's eyes, talking quietly to Cyrene about his regrets that things have ended this way before pulling free a circular silver medallion from a chain around Alexius's neck. In the times when Alexius deigned to observe my suffering to see what progress was being made by my torture for his son, I often saw him twisting the medallion between his fingers, and the feverish looks of relief on the pair's faces as they examine it confirms its importance.

"I think I know enough to make this work" Dorian mutters to Cyrene, turning the amulet over in his hands. "Give me an hour and I can perform the ritual, get us back to how things should be"

"An **_hour_**?!" I protest. "You will not have that long, I assure you. Not when-!"

Before I can finish, a roar I've not heard since the last stand at Highever silences me, turning my blood to ice. It's the battle-cry of the Elder One's pet, the beast that tore my husband limb from limb in that battle, the monster that broke the back of every army that tried to thwart its master's ambitions and has ravaged the conquered realms ever since, arbitrarily razing anything it wishes to make a statement about the futility of continuing to fight. And if the dragon has come, it will not be alone.

"Oh Maker…the Elder One knows you are here!" I curse. Maybe the bastard felt the death of one of his lieutenants. Maybe he's felt the Mark of the Herald, magic he hasn't sensed for over a year, at work again and realises his triumph is in jeopardy. Maybe whatever is approaching was meant to punish Alexius for his failures and is merely taking advantage of the fact a greater prize now rests within their grasp.

I see Cassandra and Varric exchange a glance of determined resignation and nod, then the dwarf speaks. "We'll take up positions outside, do what we can. Once they're past us, it's all up to you, Nightingale"

"What are you talking about?" Cyrene asks, understanding not quite having sunk in.

"I'm talking about buying you guys the time you need to do whatever to fix this crapsack mess by putting as many of these Vint nug-humpers in the ground as we can" the dwarf snarks back. At that remark, Cyrene's pale green eyes go wide with horror as she realises that we intend to make a final stand to finish this.

"I won't let you commit suicide for me! There must be another way!"

"Look at us!" I retort, gesturing to myself, Varric and Cassandra, our ravaged conditions and that of the world around us. "We're already dead. Our only hope is if you go back and end this before it can ever begin"

Cassandra helps herself to a fresh sword and shield from the trophy racks along the wall while Varric, with a chuckle of glee, finds his beloved crossbow in a chest behind the throne, swiftly putting Bianca back in working order, unfurling the weapon's arms and sliding a fresh bolt into place. The pair of them march out with the resigned determination of those heading to their execution. Once they are outside, I push the doors shut and slam down the locking bar to buy the two mages on the dais a little more time. Reaching into my robes, I pull out the damaged gold locket around my neck and open it, looking at the small portraits of the two people I loved most in this world, drawing strength from it to do what needs to be done.

"Do what you must. You have as much time as I have arrows" I assure the Herald before turning back to the door, notching an arrow to the string of the bow and waiting for them to come. From outside, the noise of battle comes clearly; the clash of swords, the clatter of charging feet and the curses and screams of the dying. In my heart, I know Varric and Cassandra can't hold the zealots back forever-hatred and the desire for vengeance can only overcome the effects of torture and starvation and last against the discipline, training and numbers of the Tevinter legions for so long- but we don't have to defeat this army. We just have to delay them for long enough.

I press the opened locket to my lips, wishing it to be my husband and daughter, trying to remember what I can of them-the smell of her hair, the feel of his arms around me, the warmth of both of them in my embrace- before I inevitably join them. "Arthur. Cecily. I'm sorry, please forgive me. I've kept you waiting for long enough. Just wait for me a little longer and we will be together again soon" I whisper to myself as the hall's doors rattle as enemies throw themselves against it. The doors hold against the first few blows, but by the fifth, the wooden bars across the door have begun to crack. Either the vermin have brought a battering ram, or they're directing the attention of the Fade-spawned beasts they command at it.

"Though darkness closes, I am shielded by flame" I whisper, pulling the string back, the arrow ready to fly at whatever comes through the door. A seventh blow to it causes to the doors to crash open and the first wave of Venatori hurtle in. One in the ornate armour of a commander pauses to throw Varric's severed head in my direction, the dwarf's last expression one of bemused mirth, as if not quite able to believe the story of his life has ended in so ridiculous a fashion. My first arrow takes his killer through the throat. In the courtyard beyond, I see Cassandra fighting tooth and nail and against four enemies; she buries her sword in the belly of one before another clubs her to the floor with a shield bash. Before she can get back up, three Tevinter swords pierce her heart. Cyrene avenges Cassandra with a fireball that cooks her killers alive in their own armour.

"Andraste guide me! Maker, take me to your side!" I roar as I send arrow after arrow flying into the pack. Even as Tevinters fall and die, more charge forward, too many for me to slay all by myself, even were I not rapidly running out of arrows. One of my charging attackers gets close enough to me before I can notch the arrow in my hand to the bowstring, wrapping arms around my waist and bearing us both to the floor, the thug raising up a gauntleted fist, about to bring it down to crush my skull-

"Die! Why won't you die?!"

"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and DO-NOT-FALTER!" I shriek back, stabbing the arrow through the slit of his helm, pulling it free and shooting down another Tevinter behind as the body of the first topples.

Like wolves, the Venatori close in from all directions; I stagger as an arrow slams into my shoulder. Snapping the shaft halfway along its length- the wound is painful but not serious- and seeing archers in the next wave of enemies charging forward, I change tactics. The first Venatori to come at me I kick in the balls and vault over as he doubles up in pain, making sure to hook the string of my bow around his neck. I dart to the left and pull, dragging my captive into the path of the maul his comrade was swinging for my head; his own skull is mushed into pulp by the blow meant for me. Wrenching the dead man's falcata from his grip, I take off the right hand of the man behind him- he drops his maul to clutch at the bleeding stump and the sword goes through the slit of his helm's visor. I have never been the swordsman Arthur was, but in my hand, the falcata is a whirring blur of steel, and with the numbers pressing in on me, it's not too hard to hit anything; numerous of the attackers fall back, clutching gaping wounds or the stumps of arms and legs

Another fireball explodes in the doorway, immolating a good number of the Tevinter archers and sending the rest diving for cover. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Cyrene about to cast another spell when Dorian darts forward, seizing her by the wrist and pulling her back to his position by the arl's throne.

"YOU MOVE, AND WE ALL DIE!" he roars frantically as sparks of pale blue lightning dance in his hands from the amulet in his grip.

My distraction costs me dearly- a burly body slams into my back and thick arms wrap around my chest, while another wrenches the sword from my hand and flings it away. I cry out involuntarily, seeing Cyrene look at me in horror; I desperately cast my gaze around and see what has drawn her eye, as what the Venatori mean to be my executioner moves into view. A greater terror, seven feet tall, all gnarled leathery skin, curling antlers and numerous black eyes like a shark, looms over me, pulling back its arm for the death blow. I've seen how these creatures kill; an upward swing under the ribs to puncture the heart. But just before the creature's claws strike, a howling vortex of cerulean energy erupts into life at the top of the dais; Dorian seizes Cyrene around the waist and all but drags the elf through. The second they are through, the portal collapses and when it is no larger than a pinprick, it explodes into a blinding white light that envelopes us all.

The Venatori howl in dismay as they realise what is happening, but I only smile as my life's blood pours out around the talons embedded in my belly.

 _'Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker's will is written'_.

We've won. Thedas will survive. The Elder One's victory has been unwritten and if I know Cyrene Lavellan, he will not have a second chance to achieve it. Arthur, Cecily, Alistair, Josephine, Cullen, Cassandra, Varric and all the others, they will live again. And this time, we will not fail. I know not how we will defeat the Elder One yet, but the second chance the Maker has granted us will not be squandered.


End file.
